the good old days
by lealila
Summary: Seamus and Dean, and the words they don't say. More or less canon-compliant.


**_title from 27 by fall out boy. _**

**_written in scenes, and not in chronological order, but i'm pretty sure it's easy to understand nevertheless_**

_(i can't remember) the good old days_

_seamus and dean, and the words they don't say_

**i.**

You light up and cover the world in smoke.

Dean's on the other side, looking in, and you reach out, but by the time you find your way out, he's already gone.

**ii.**

Seeing him alive—having him in your arms again—it's—it's—

It's breathing easy again. There's life in your veins, and a fire in your heart and you're laughing, grinning (crying).

He's grinning back at you, hugging you tightly, asking all sorts of inane questions (_how are you are you alright what happened to your face_) and calling you such wonderful things (_you nutter you idiot_). For an eternity, it is just you and Dean, reunited at least.

For a second, the world is right again.

**iii.**

After Dumbledore's funeral, you and Dean keep to yourselves. No one is in the mood for talking and even you can't find any words to say.

But Dean does. Dean always finds a way to surprise you, to sweep aside all expectations and make his own rules.

"I might not come back next year," he says to the sky, hands on the ground, palm up.

Fear twists in your stomach, and for a moment, you can't find your voice.

"Why?"

He sighs. "Seamus."

You look at him and look and look and wonder where your best friend is, under all that sorrow. You reach for his hand and he lets you take it.

You say, "Come back to me."

(And this isn't a confession—not truly. But it's as close as you're willing to get, and you hope he understands that.)

(_he does_)

Dean closes his eyes, and that's an answer if there ever was one.

**iv.**

After the war, you dream of a world filled only with Dean.

Dean's shampoo, Dean's warmth, Dean's smile.

You know there's a very high probability of this not happening, but you dream it anyways, if only to make it to the end, whatever that may be.

**v.**

You don't contact him after you say your goodbyes at King's Cross. He doesn't need to say it, and you don't need to ask, but still. You almost wish you did ask, if only to hope he would say _yes_.

(You had hoped that everything would be alright. That this was just a dream that you'd soon wake up from.)

You are half a person without Dean on your side. You feel empty and lost and lonely. Neville and Ginny and Luna are good friends, but they're not Dean. They try to talk to you, to cheer you up a bit, but they know when to leave well enough alone.

At night, you close your eyes and wonder what he's doing, if he's safe if he's alive or if snatchers have caught him or death eaters and maybe they're torturing him maybe he's dying maybe maybe maybe he won't ever come back to you when he promised he promised he would you're friends more than friends he _has_ to come back please please come back to me—

**vi.**

You ask on the train if you can come with. You didn't have the courage beforehand, worried he would have said _no _(and you're still worried you still know it's a possibility) but you won't get another chance and you need him, and he needs you. You two have always stuck together. That can't stop now.

He just smiles and reaches over to touch your cheek—a gesture he hardly ever uses. Your eyes flutter as he says, "Shay, you know you can't."

"Do I." You've never heard anything so stupid before.

"Hogwarts will need you. Neville and—and Ginny and whoever else stays—they can't do it on their own."

There's no need to ask what "it" is. Still. He's being stupid. He'll need someone to cover his back.

"But you'll be alone—"

And Dean laughs and laughs and laughs until he's crying and you just hold him and don't say anything because anything you do say will be a lie and he doesn't need that now, he needs the truth.

The truth's just a little painful, though, so you hold him tighter and try to squeeze out all his fears.

He eventually calms down enough to lift his head from your chest and move it to your shoulder. There's snot and tears on your jumper, but you hardly notice. You just want him happy again.

He says, "Sorry about your jumper."

"It happens."

He huffs and wraps his arms around you tighter. Neither of you speak until the end, but then, you don't need to.

Everything has already been said.

**vii.**

Your mam doesn't want you to go, once she learns the reason why you haven't written to Dean, or received anything from him. Da doesn't care one way or the other—he's never really _believed _the danger You-Know-Who presents, and thinks it's all a hoax.

But Dean was right on that train: Ginny and Neville can't do it on their own. They need all the help they can get, and you're an able-bodied human and who knows? Maybe you'll accidently set Snape on fire.

**viii.**

(In third year, you and Dean are alone in the dorm after the very first lesson with Professor Lupin. You are lying on Dean's bed, stretched out to all four corners and laughing at his attempt to make room for himself.

You wait for him to admit defeat before you make room and sit up. "Why the hand?" you ask as he settles himself.

"Why the banshee?" he throws back, nervous and defensive.

You don't speak for a moment, almost nervous about sharing a foolish part in your history. But Dean won't laugh, and behind his own fearfulness is genuine curiosity. You say, "Me mam and I were out walking once when I was little. She turned her back for a second and I had heard something interesting. I left without telling her and walked to the pond. Next thing I know, this banshee was trying to drown me. I started screaming and Mam came over and rescued me." You pause and, with a hint of a smile, add, "Then she started yelling at me for running off like that. She almost frightened me more than the banshee."

Dean laughs. "Any angry woman is a frightening one."

"Why the hand?" you ask again, determined not to be distracted.

His smile falls off his face. He takes a long while before answering. "I had a dream that this hand was strangling my family. I tried to help, but. I couldn't. And then I was trying to revive them, but the hand kept pulling me back and telling me I deserved to be alone."

"You're not alone," you say.

He scowls. "Sentimentality doesn't suit you, Finnigan."

"And moping doesn't suit you." You spring off the bed, making it bounce. "C'mon. Let's go to the lake."

He grabs his sketchbook and pencils and races you down, fear forgotten.)

**ix.**

When You-Know-Who grants you a break, a time to bury the dead, the first thing you do is look for Dean in the Great Hall. You spot him immediately.

He's leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, and starring at the floor. For the first time, you can't even begin to fathom what he's thinking.

You walk over, noting how skinny he looks. He's always been lanky, but now he looks starved.

Not for the first time, you wonder what happened to him while he was on the run.

When you reach him, you say his name. He looks up and his whole face glows with relief.

"Seamus," he says with a smile, and draws you closer into a hug. "Are you alright?"

What a stupid question. Of course you're alright. Still, he won't relent until you give an answer.

"'Course I'm alright."

You can feel his smile in your hair. "Just making sure."

"Are you?"

"As I'll ever be," he says after a pause.

Well. He's always been more honest than you.

**x.**

"How the bloody hell did you manage to sneak those here?"

You're down by the lake after class. You've only been here three weeks and already (perhaps for the first time, because you still don't know whether or not to count last year as a good one, not counting Cedric's death, which would be horrible at any time) you're counting down the days until you get out of here. You needed to get away from everyone for a bit—especially Harry. You haven't spoken one word to each other since that fight on the first day back.

You debate telling Dean to leave, but quickly dismiss it. You both are already on edge over the fact if You-Know-Who has returned or not, and you're not willing to drive him away any further.

"Wasn't hard," you answer. "Nobody checks our luggage."

Dean leans against a tree with arms crossed, and gives you a Look. You scowl and put out your cigarette. It's almost burned out, anyways.

"Why are you down here?"

"Wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I'm fine."

Dean glares at the abandoned cigarette. "Obviously."

Silence reigns—too long—before he speaks up again. "When did you start?"

Your fingers itch to hold something. Anything. A cigarette. Your wand. (Dean.) "Over the summer. Not often. I stopped when you came over. Stopped again a week before school started. I didn't pick them up until Saturday." You don't bother trying to explain why you brought them. You're not sure he'll understand.

(You're not sure _you_ understand.)

"Why?"

You pull down your sleeves; September hasn't even ended and already you can feel a chill.

"Shay." He steps forward, one step, two steps, three and four until he's standing right next to you. He's taller and so you have to bend your neck to meet his eyes. "Please. I want to help, if I can."

"It's that Umbridge woman. I can't _stand_ her," you finally say, which—while true—isn't what you want to say at all.

(come back to me. please. i feel like i'm losing you.)

He doesn't believe you, but you've always been a decent liar, and he's never questioned you before. You're confident now won't be any different.

"She is a nasty woman. Even some Slytherians hate her."

"Really?" You don't actually care, but you'll take anything to get Dean's attention away from you.

(Though that's not what you want at all.)

He nods, slowly, eyes fixed over some distant point across the lake. "Heard some third years complaining in the plaza while I was coming down."

He doesn't care either. He's just trying to distract you, and you don't really understand why. You don't know if he really cares that much, and it kills you think that maybe he doesn't.

"Let's go back up," you say, too quickly, but he just waits for you to lead the way—as always—and doesn't say a word.

**xi.**

After everything is good and done—after You-Kn—after Voldemort's defeat, you feel a little lost on what to do now. This is what you dreamed of this entire year—being safe with Dean—but now that it has been achieved, you don't know where to go now.

Mam wants you coming home. She wants to bundle you up and keep you away from all the evils out there, but you wouldn't be able to handle that. You'd go stir crazy, after fighting for so long.

Da doesn't say anything—he's still in France, and you don't know when (or even _if_) he's coming back, but you don't really care. You've never been close to him, especially since attending Hogwarts.

Dean says he's going to stay and help with the clean-up. And you should too, but you're so tired and aching for a fag, but Dean would kill you if he caught you smoking. But it's your duty, anyways, to clean the mess you helped create.

And even if you did stay, it wouldn't be long before Hogwarts is put to rights again, and you wouldn't know what to do then. You don't want to go back to classes. You're tired of school. You don't know what you want to do as a career. You've never had one class that you truly excelled in. Charms came the closest, with an E. Every other subject in, you only received A's. But you don't know what you can do with that.

When you tell Dean, late at night and four days after the battle, and you're both sitting on his bed because neither of you want to sleep just yet, he suggests that you talk to Professor McGonagall.

"She should have an idea that would interest you. I'm just as clueless as you are, anyways. I don't know what careers there are for wizards."

Which. You don't understand because you thought he would keep painting, and sell those and become famous, either in the Wizarding or Muggle world.

"We'll both talk to her."

And that was perhaps what you wanted all along.

**xii.**

You're sitting with a girl and a boy who call themselves Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom when _he_ shows up and asking if there's room.

"Mind if I sit? Everywhere else is full."

You all wave him in, and he takes a seat next to you, across from Hermione. "My name's Dean Thomas." You give your names before talking about what Hogwarts will be like. But not five minutes later, Neville suddenly realizes he lost his toad. Hermione offers to help, but you and Dean vouch out.

And you talk the entire ride. When he reveals that he's Muggle-born, you tell him everything about Hogwarts and wizards and witches until you're red in the face. Neville and Hermione never come back, but you don't even realize that until the end of the ride.

You look at each other before bursting into laughter.

And as you're exiting the train, Dean says, "You better be in the same house as me."

You laugh and promise to try.

**xiii.**

You take up smoking again over the summer after sixth year. Dean helped you stop in fifth year, and for a year, you were clean. But you need to distract yourself and you don't turn seventeen until October, making magic an impossible distraction.

You consider buying a sketchbook and pencils, but quickly dismiss that idea. Drawing belongs to Dean and you can't—it would be acknowledging that Dean really won't be coming back for a long time, and you can't do that.

You continue smoking in school in the dorm. You manage to hide it from Neville, since he's usually in the common room and you're upstairs.

Still, you try to quit. For Dean.

He won't be pleased to hear you've been using fags again. And so you do try, but it's not until you take residency in the Room of Requirement that you go weeks without a cigarette.

You don't tell Dean, and he never asks—probably would never think to ask—and so you're in the clear, more or less. You feel guilty keeping it a secret, yet you don't want his disappointment.

Eventually, you decide not to tell him. It was the one relaxing hobby you had during seventh year, and that's hardly a crime.

**xiv.**

Every night, Dean wakes up screaming.

You're there, holding his hand and speaking utter nonsense, as he shakes and shakes and shakes. He looks wild, scared, while holding your hand tight.

He never talks about what happens afterwards. And you know he should (you both should), but—it's hard.

You watch Harry, Ron, and Hermione deal with their time away by never leaving each other's side. Luna and Neville throw themselves into the restoration of Hogwarts. There's never a Weasley seen alone, even though it's clear George wishes he could be.

You watch all the students who band together and always reach for their friends and family. And you think that as long as you and Dean stick together, you'll both eventually heal.

**xv.**

You both talk to McGonagall three days later, who threatens Dean when he says that wizards don't actually do art and maybe he should get a real Wizarding job?

She looks ready to thwack him on the head, but you feel it is your duty as best friend to do it for her.

Dean looks properly chastened and a not just a little relieved.

Real job. You never thought Dean was so stupid.

Professor McGonagall suggests you go into special effects or theatre. And, well. That's not actually a bad idea. You like the idea of travelling Europe and Charms _was_ your specialty, despite setting things on fire.

She lets you go and you ask what Dean thinks, if he would be up for travelling.

"What?"

Merlin's beard.

"You. Travelling with me while making works of art that will someday make you famous. What d'you think?"

He gives you a Look. "Why?"

(because you can't let him out of your sight again. because you can't imagine living life without him, because it's always been seamusanddean and you don't see any need to make it otherwise.)

(because you love him.)

"Uh, why not?" You stop walking, and stare at him. He's still giving you that Look.

"We can't just pack up and leave, Shay."

"I don't mean _now_. Just. Someday, give or take a few years."

His Look turns into confusion. "You...do you…." He trails off, hands twitching. You resist the urge to hold them so he doesn't look so…damaged.

"It's always been us, Dean. Don't see why it should change any time soon."

He smiles—just a little—but it's genuine and real, and it's the first honest smile you've seen him in since Dumbledore's funeral a year ago.

"No, I guess it shouldn't," he says and you can't really explain why you feel so relieved.

**xvi.**

You think you have nightmares too, but you never wake up screaming, and in the morning (or when you wake up to Dean's nightmares), you don't remember anything.

But there's always that unsettled feeling in the pit of your stomach that's only there right after you wake up or think about seventh year too much.

(Or even just a little.)

The only time that feeling goes away is when you're with Dean or out with your (technically former) classmates.

And there's a look in your eyes (when you look properly in the mirror) that never seems to go away. You see the same look in the kids that were there with you, or tortured outside of school grounds, whether they were on the run (like Dean) or taken away (like Luna).

You don't like being touched anywhere above the neck, even though you crave Dean's fingers brushing your cheeks as he leans in to—

But that's a fantasy, one you know that's years away from being reality. You can still feel the Carrow's touch right before they cursed you to infinity and back.

Dean's understanding. He lets you reach out to him first before he pulls you in close and destroys that twist in your gut that sometimes keeps you up at night.

It's comforting, having him around. And grounding.

You'd never off yourself with your wand, but you don't think you'd be quite as sane.

Dean's the same, you think.

(You're all the same, you and your classmates, and even some of the adults who were brave enough to fight your war.)

Dean needs you just as much as you need him.

**xvii.**

You get a job at one of the pub's on Diagon Alley while Dean starts his career and you start learning how to be a special effects guy in one of the local theatre's just south of Gringott's.

You split rent on a flat that's barely half the size of your old room in Hogwarts and on the other side of Wizarding London. But it's cheap and closer to Dean's family, too.

They don't visit often—usually it's Dean who goes to them, and even then, that's barely once every month—but it's nice when they do, even if it's just a little too crowded for your tastes.

(It's like belonging to an actual family. Mam has barely spoken to you since you moved in, back in August, and you told her off for trying to smother you. And—you almost miss her. But as each year passed in Hogwarts, you grew closer to your friends and away from your family.

And besides, Mam doesn't appreciate your sexual orientation either, and you don't have the energy for that argument, or the guts to tell her.)

(Da sent a letter to Mam last month in October, claiming that he wasn't planning on coming back.

The divorce papers didn't take long to be signed.)

But Dean's happy every time he sees his mam, da, and sisters, and that's all you really want.

But it's nice being spoiled, too.

**xiii.**

You try not to get angry about Dean joining Harry's club, but it's a little hard because it means he believes everything Harry's saying about You-Know-Who coming back. And outside, you're calm and tell him you don't mind that he's learning how to fight Dementors.

But inside, a fire burns in your heart.

It's not fair on Dean, you think—not all of it—but you hate that he's taking Harry's side—that he listens to _him_ and not _you. _

Best friends are supposed to support each other, and for the first time in five years, you and Dean don't.

There's a rift between you two, one that's never been there, not even when you first met. There's a hesitancy is your words and in his actions, and neither of you have sat so far away from each other in class and during meal times.

You keep smoking, even though Dean nags you, because it's relaxing. It lets you forget about Dean and Umbridge and the arguments on whether or not You-Know-Who is back. And when you're down to five, you cast charms to make the fags last longer.

You hate this year. Everything's changing—not really for the better—and you don't know how to go back.

(You don't know if you want to go back. You hate change, but Dean embraces it with arms wide open.)

But then Rita Skeeter's interview with Harry comes out in the Quibbler's second edition in November. Dean shows it to you the morning after, and you read it over eggs and toast.

At the end, all you can say is: "Oh."

Dean smirks at you over his pumpkin juice, but there's still hesitancy in his gaze, and his tone as he says, "Yes. _Oh_."

You'll have to swallow your pride and apologize to Harry for being a dick and not believing him. And forward this to Mam, but most importantly, you need to reconnect with Dean.

(Dean always said your priorities were a little skewed, but Dean's your best friend and Harry—well, he can live without an apology for one more day. Might be good for him.)

"What are you working on now?"

"What?"

"Drawings. What are you working on now?" It's been a while since he's shown you, and even longer since you asked.

Dean blinks once, twice, four more times, before he grins and stands. "C'mon. I'll show you."

**xix.**

"You bastard."

Dean doesn't even blink. "Mm."

He's reading the assignment Professor McGonagall assigned in the the last class, and you should be too, but right now, you have other things on your mind.

Like the fact that someone has stolen all your cigarettes, and there's only one person in your dorm who would rifle through your things—and know exactly where you hide them.

"You took me fags!"

He doesn't deny it—he doesn't even react, which pisses you off 'cause you'd really like to be angry at something—someone—and right now, there's only Dean.

"Well?"

He looks up. Finally.

"Well what? They're bad for you. And Umbridge or her squad will have your head if they ever find out." Dean narrows his eyes, a first sign that he's either getting angry or overly protective. (Or both.) "I'm just looking out for you."

Which. Fine, yes, that's great. You get that. But he shouldn't need to.

"Dean—"

He arches an eyebrow, but you just let it go and look for something to distract you that's not smoking or homework.

(You wish it could be Dean, but he doesn't lean that way.

What a shame, you think. He looks like he would be a good kisser.)

**xx.**

(_What a shame, you think. He looks like he would be a good kisser._)

Damn.

You're in your dorm—alone, thank Merlin—with your potions book in front of you, but you haven't even opened it.

(_He looks like he would be such a good kisser_.)

That wasn't—it's not that you _want_ to kiss him, or anything. It's just that—it was an observation.

Just an observation; you don't _actually_ like Dean.

That is, you like him, but you don't like him like _that_. You're _friends_. Just friends.

And friends don't want to kiss one another.

(_What a shame, you think. He looks like he would be a good kisser_.)

Damn.

You smash your head against the headboard—not really on purpose—and bite back a shout.

You're in so much trouble.


End file.
